One Last Wand
by Dr. Platypus
Summary: The little French town of Beauxbatons is known in the wizarding world for two things: fine wands and a superb Academy of magic. This is a story about both.
1. There Are Things Gold Cannot Buy

Néron cursed under his breath as he ambled down the corridor toward the Spells teacher's apartments. He was decidedly in no hurry—far from it: the last thing he wanted to do on such a beautiful spring day was face Master Sylvanus and admit to what he had done. No, the last thing he wanted to do was make the request he had to make.

_So close! _he shook his head. _If Austor hadn't tripped on the pavement, I wouldn't have run into him. And if I hadn't run into him, I wouldn't have dropped my wand…_

He cursed again.

"Néron, the cauldron-seller from Marselha is back," he scoffed in a near perfect imitation of Austor's nasal Provençal accent. "The one with the pretty daughter. We should go see her."

_Of course, Austor. We'll just sneak out of class and slip into town so you can chat up a girl who surely has nothing better to do than pay attention to a sixteen-year-old schoolboy. What could _possibly_ go wrong with a plan like that?_

"Was she?" The voice jolted Néron back into the present. He hadn't even realized Master Sylvanus's door was open. Néron stood frozen in his steps.

"The girl," Master Sylvanus grinned, whether sincerely or in mockery Néron couldn't quite tell. "Was she as pretty as Austor said?"

"Master Sylvanus!" Néron gasped. Before he could decide what to say next, the Spells teacher continued.

"I missed the two of you in class this afternoon." He rose from his reading desk and fiddled with the folds in his robes. Néron couldn't help but notice they were patched at the elbows and fit rather poorly. He almost felt ashamed of his own robes of shimmering blue with gold brocade around the collar. Brushing a wisp of thin white hair out of his face, Master Sylvanus strode toward Néron. The grin—whatever it was supposed to mean—was gone. "You may want to know I assigned a brief chapter on Banishing Spells, to be copied from the master in the scriptorium for Monday."

"Yes, Master Sylvanus."

"But somehow I don't think you've come by merely to ask about homework. Was there something else, Néron?"

"I…uh…" There was no point putting it off any longer. With a deep sigh of resignation, Néron reached into the mokeskin pouch at his belt and pulled out his wand—or at least, what was left of it.

Master Sylvanus whistled when he saw it. It was broken cleanly in half, with only a thin membrane of dragon's heartstring holding the two pieces together. The Spells teacher reached out his hand, tears in his eyes, and Néron dejectedly handed it over.

"Is this…a hoof mark?" he said. Néron studied his shoes. Then he looked up at his teacher, willing himself to remain calm.

"There's usually a bit more fight in those gray eyes of yours, Néron." The comment didn't seem to call for a comment, so he didn't offer one.

"Austor and I went into town. We were trying to get back to school in time for class," Néron lied. "I…tripped…dropped my wand…and…."

"Running with a wand in your hand is rarely a good idea," the Spells teacher commented.

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I..."

"Especially on a crowded street on a market day." He weighed the severed wand halves in his fingers. "You never know who you'll run into."

Néron felt certain a large stone had just materialized in the pit of his stomach. _She knows_, he thought. _The headmistress knows_.

"Mistress Rixenda went to market this afternoon as well," Master Sylvanus continued nonchalantly. "Something about running short of ink in the scriptorium. Normally, she'd have left the matter to Mistress Petrona, of course, but it was such a beautiful day she decided to get out of the palace for an hour or so and deal with it herself."

"I…see."

Master Sylvanus took the broken wand over to the window to examine it in better light. For several idle minutes he turned it over and rolled it with his fingers. The silence was unbearable.

"M-master Sylvanus?"

"Yes, Néron?"

"Can it… Can it be fixed?"

"No. You'll have to get a new one."

"Then, if I may, sir… That's why I'm here—if it isn't too much trouble. And don't worry about the money. My father—"

"Your father has provided you a very generous allowance to cover your expenses and incidentals and you'll have no problem paying for my services, is that right?"

Néron blushed slightly.

"Néron, am I correct that when you came here you were not certain Mistress Rixenda actually saw you and Austor in town? You might have gone to any other wand-maker in Bels-bastons and, as far as you knew, no one would have to know about your little excursion. And yet you came to me."

"You're the best wand-maker in town—everyone says so. That one" (he indicated the broken pieces in the Spells teacher's hands) "has never let me down. You're the reason every wizard in France comes to Bels-bastons for a wand."

Master Sylvanus once again weighed the broken pieces in his hands. "Thirteen and a half inches. Poplar. Dragon's heartstring, obviously. One of the last wands I ever made. I'm glad it has served you, Néron, but I retired from the guild when I took up teaching at the Academy. Go see Master Azemars—or better, Master Ponç. He does very good work. Tell him I sent you."

Néron shifted his weight from his left foot to his right.

"Forgive me, sir, but I would rather have another one of yours."

Master Sylvanus turned back toward his student. "Is it that important to you?"

"I haven't told anyone yet…" Néron sighed. "In his last letter, my father said he's been granted a fiefdom in England. This may be my last year at the Academy."

"I see," Master Sylvanus said. "It seems your father's star continues to climb. And of course, I wish you well—though I will be sorry to see you go. You've got a real talent, you know."

"Thank you, sir. But please…. Name your price. I can pay it."

Master Sylvanus peered deeply into Néron's young, gray eyes.

"There are things gold cannot buy, Néron," he said at last. He gently set his hand on Néron's shoulder. "And my affection is one of them."

Néron dared to breathe.

"Tomorrow morning. Dawn. On the grounds, by the statue of Saint Expeditus." He turned away.

"S-sir?"

"I will make you a wand, Néron. But first you're going to help me harvest the wood."

* * *

><p>• The languages of medieval France are divided roughly into the <em>langues d'oïl<em> in the north and the _langues d'oc_ in the south, based on the local words for "yes." In medieval documents, the southern dialects are usually called _Romans_ (i.e., Romance) or _Proensals_ (i.e., Provençal), although modern scholars use the term Occitan.

• In the local dialect, the city of Marseille is called Marselha—originally known as Massalia, a Greek colony founded around 600 BC.

• In French, the difference between a _palais_ (palace) and a _château_ (castle) is one of geography, not architecture. _Palais_ are found in urban settings while _châteaux_ are rural.

• _Bels-bastons_ is Old French for "fair (or beautiful) staffs (or sticks)." The modern equivalent is, of course, Beauxbâtons. Oddly enough, _bâton_ is not the French word for "wand," which would properly be called a _baguette_. Harry Potter uses a _baguette_; Gandalf uses a _bâton_. It seems clear, however, that Ms. Rowling intended the meaning "fair/beautiful wands," and I have proceeded from that starting point.

• Medieval units of measurement could vary greatly from place to place, but in general a French _pied_ ("foot") was a bit longer than an English foot, making French inches longer as well.

• Medieval guilds began to develop around 1100. I propose, however, that the wand-makers guild of Bels-bastons is a holdover from earlier Roman craft organizations.

• After the Norman Conquest of England in 1066, William the Conqueror replaced the Saxon aristocracy with his own trusted lieutenants. England came to be governed by a foreign (Norman French) elite imposing what might be called military law. In the process, English society was totally transformed within a generation.


	2. Too Old for This

"And then what happened?"

Master Sylvanus hiked briskly up a steep slope in the wooded path. Birds were singing. The rising sun had only slightest trace of fog yet to burn away.

"Well," Néron began, working to keep up with his teacher despite his younger legs, "Someone else was looking at cauldrons, too—an older fellow, I think he finished at the Academy about the time I started. But he wasn't really interested in cauldrons, if you know what I mean."

"He had his eyes on the girl, too," Master Sylvanus said.

"And Austor got a bit miffed about it. We hadn't skived off a class since…well, it had been a while…and he didn't want it to be for nothing."

"I take it wand-play will eventually enter into this story?" He pushed aside a low-hanging branch and trudged off the path and deeper into the woods.

"Austor thought a quick jinx would keep the older fellow distracted, maybe make him look stupid in front of the cauldron-seller's daughter. He hit him with a Peditum Jinx. Not a good idea. He figured out right away we were responsible and pulled out his own wand. That's when I got mine out. But then, as if things couldn't get any worse, I caught sight of Mistress Rixenda coming around a corner."

"So the two of you beat a hasty retreat."

"Yes, sir. After that…well, I think you already know the rest."

Master Sylvanus didn't answer. He had stopped in front of a tall tree standing by itself in the middle of a small clearing. He studied the diamond-shaped marks on its trunk, then gave a flick of his wand to send a gentle breeze through the broad, green leaves. He sniffed the air.

"What about another poplar? Your first wand was a very good match," he said, but immediately frowned. "But we had such a dry winter, I'm not quite sure…I think we can do better."

The Spells teacher pivoted left, then right, as if he had misplaced his quill and was trying to find it. Néron figured he was studying the forest, but hadn't a clue what was going through Master Sylvanus's mind.

"Forgive me, sir, but for my first wand you just had me try out a few in your workshop. Isn't there a way we could…"

"I've already told you, Néron, I haven't made a wand in five years. I have none for you to sample, as I sold my surplus to Master Ponç. Fortunately, I've seen your spellwork. I know your strengths and weaknesses. Don't worry, my boy, we'll find you the right wood." He gazed at the sky, where the sun had now cleared the tops of the trees. "At any rate, _they'll_ know how to match you up."

"They? Who are 'they'?"

Master Sylvanus didn't acknowledge the question. "So, England! That must be exciting."

Néron shrugged. "Father seems to think so." The truth was, he hated the thought of leaving the Academy. Austor, for all his impulsiveness, was still his best friend. And then there was Elionor…

"Hogwarts was the first wizarding school ever, you know," Master Sylvanus continued. "When I was a boy, young witches and wizards apprenticed to whatever teacher their families could afford—and who would take them on. I remember how my own father fretted over my education. He was sure Guilheumes de Peitieurs was going to turn me down flat."

"Guilheumes de Peitieurs? Didn't he write one of our textbooks?"

The Spells teacher nodded. "Magical Flora and Fauna. When Mistress Rixenda founded the Academy, she tried to persuade him to teach for her."

"Wouldn't that have been something!"

"He'd never have agreed," Master Sylvanus said. "Far too conservative. Plus, he thought it was foolish to build a school of magic in town."

"Even Bels-bastons?" Néron puzzled. "I think the place is wonderful. It's much nicer than anywhere in Normandy. And with all the protective enchantments, it's not like the _Moldus_ would ever find it."

Master Sylvanus smiled. "Bels-bastons is under more anti-_Moldu_ spells than I can count, and has been since Roman times. I'll bet it's the largest wizarding settlement in all of Europe. But Guilheumes was always a bit of a hermit. Large crowds bothered him.

"But, back to the task at hand: your new wand. You need a good, versatile wood, that's for sure. Perhaps hazel. Or oak—red oak? White oak? I can't decide. Néron, would you say you're more comfortable with fire magic or—"

He stopped mid-sentence. A tiny shiver seemed to course through the Spells teacher's body.

"No need to be frightened, my boy," he said. But the expression on his face told Néron there might well be a very good reason to be afraid.

"Master Sylvanus, I don't underst—"

"Shh!"

Néron stood still. At last, he heard it. Somewhere in the distance was the sound of singing. As the volume increased, so did his understanding. He had heard that music before. In fact, when the weather was warm, as it had been the past few weeks, Mistress Rixenda would order the windows of the Great Hall opened during meals so the students could enjoy the haunting melodies.

"Keep your wits about you, boy!" Master Sylvanus whispered urgently. "Shut your eyes if you have to, but it's more polite if you don't."

"What? I—oh!"

A single figure appeared from out of the forest. Néron didn't see her coming. There was no brushing of branches, no footsteps, no flashes of movement in the distance. It was as if she had been standing behind the birch tree at the edge of the clearing the whole time and suddenly stepped out to greet the teacher and his student. She brushed her long, raven hair out of her eyes and smiled. Néron couldn't help but notice that her only garment was a gauzy shift that fluttered carelessly in the morning breeze.

"_Kall' hêmera, Silouane_," she said in a silky purr. Her brilliant green eyes landed on Néron. "_Tis estin ho neaniskos?_"

"_Romans_, if you please, Dione," Master Sylvanus. His body seemed to tense in the newcomer's presence. He wasn't the only one!

"You remember me," she said in the local dialect. "I'm flattered." Two more women appeared as mysteriously as the first, similarly dressed and equally beautiful. Néron feared his face had gone pink. It was suddenly unseasonably warm. He resolved to keep his gaze fixed determinedly on the old, wrinkled face of his teacher.

"Yes… Well… This is Néron," Master Sylvanus stammered. "He is in need of a new wand and I…erm…that is, if it isn't too much trouble, we've come by to harvest some wood."

"I see," the first woman said. "And what sort of wood are you thinking about, young man?"

Now Néron was certain his face was an impressive shade of red. The three women giggled.

"Now, now, Dione, he's only fifteen."

"Sixteen last month!" Néron blurted out. _Where did that come from?_

"Since…ah…since you're here," the Spells teacher stammered, "would it be possible for you to…offer a hand?"

"No problem at all," Dione purred. "Asterope, Byblis, what do you think?"

One of the other women glided toward Néron as if her bare feet weren't even touching the ground. She ran her long, slim fingers through Néron's sandy hair. The third had apparently come around behind him to sniff the nape of his neck. Néron felt teased and humiliated—but at the same time enthralled by the women's attention. The three of them hummed an oddly enchanting song as they circled around him.

_Look them in the eye_, Néron told himself. _No, on second thought, look at Master Sylvanus_.

"Well?" the Spells teacher said after what seemed an eternity.

"I know just the one!" the woman who sniffed Néron's neck said, and in a flash she was zipping away into the thickest part of the woods as if it were a well-trimmed garden."

"Wait for us, Asterope," Dione called, and with a backward glance, she too slipped into the woods.

"Catch us if you can!" the third woman called, and gave Néron a wink.

The ground stopped spinning. Master Sylvanus elbowed Néron out of his daze and the two of them trudged along, taking up the rear. Néron could just hear his teacher muttering under his breath.

"Wood nymphs! Circe's wand, I'm getting too old for this!"

* * *

><p>• <em>Peditum<em> is the noun form from the Latin verb _pedere_. Look it up. :-)

• The French edition of Harry Potter translates "Muggle" as _Moldu_. Although apparently intended as a made-up word, it lends itself to a vaguely plausible etymology from _mou_ (feminine, _molle_; ultimately from Latin _mollis_), meaning "soft, squishy, listless, indecisive," or some such, plus the slightly pejorative sounding ending –_du_. Perhaps, if we choose to play along, the original meaning was "a magically weak or ineffectual person." Another possibility, more hypothetical but also more satisfying (to me, at least) is to link it to a Proto-Celtic root *_meldo_- (or *_meldu_-), meaning "soft" or "mild," by way of a hypothetical Gaulish word *_moldus_.

• Dione greets Master Sylvanus in Ancient Greek: "Good day, Sylvanus. Who is the young man?"


	3. Summertime, Sea Foam, Young Men's Dreams

It was a wild olive tree, old and twisted. Néron wondered how long it had stood there. Something fluttered in Néron's stomach, and it wasn't just because of the lilting voices of the wood nymphs who circled around the tree in their wind-blown, gossamer dresses.

"Yes," Master Sylvanus said, stroking his chin. "I believe you're right." He pulled his wand from within his robes and peered up into the gnarled branches until he found the one he wanted. With a flick of his wand, the desired branch detached itself and fell to the ground. Further wand work left him with a crude, two-foot long stick.

"Olive is a fine choice," Master Sylvanus said. "Fine texture. Exceptional grain. Ideal for an intelligent, creative witch or wizard. Thank you, ladies. Thank you very much."

"I'm glad you approve," the nymph named Dione said. "Are we ready, then, to negotiate a price?"

Master Sylvanus furrowed his brow.

"A price? I don't understand. I've always harvested wand-wood from the forest without charge."

Dione addressed the Spells teacher as if he were a little boy was unsure precisely how to tie his shoes. "In the past, Sylvanus, you belonged to the wand-makers guild. Your membership dues bought harvesting privileges for all guild members. Or have you forgotten?"

Néron could see the sweat trickling down his teacher's brow. The nymphs glided nearer. The other two circled him while Dione continued to direct her attention to Sylvanus.

"B-but you can't be serious," he protested. "After all, I was a member of the guild for over forty years! Surely I'm entitled to some consideration."

The nymph who found the olive tree giggled as she brushed against Néron from behind. He started with a quite undignified squeak, which only made Asterope and Byblis titter with glee.

"How much do you want," Néron said, more loudly than he had intended. "I have gold. How much do you want?"

"Oh, we have little need for gold," one of the nymphs whispered in his ear.

"Well then, how does the guild pay you?"

"It depends," the nymph said. "Nard from Arabia, silk from Cathay…"

"Candies and baubles and flowers in May," Dione grinned.

"Glistening water from underground streams," Byblis, the third nymph, added.

"Summertime, sea foam, and young men's dreams," they all said, or rather sang, in unison.

_How do I get myself in messes like this?_

"Well, we don't have any of those things," Master Sylvanus insisted. "But if you'll just…let us go now, I'll be sure to arrange for—"

"Why not just leave the boy?" Asterope interrupted. Dione and Byblis "hmmed" thoughtfully. There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"Oh, don't look so serious, Sylvanus," Asterope continued, winking at Néron. "We wouldn't turn him into anything _too_ bad."

Néron suddenly remembered the scene in the _Odyssey_ with Circe and Odysseus's sailors. _Please do something, Master Sylvanus!_ And thankfully, he did.

"N-now, that's enough of that," he said, raising his wand. Dione gave him a look that said she was insulted but unafraid.

"We've come here peacefully, Dione, and you know that the guild will be happy to vouch for me. The boy and I are leaving now. Good day."

Dione sighed, then sidled up to Master Sylvanus and stood on her toes to give him a gentle peck on the cheek. Asterope, however, cradled Néron's face in her hands and leaned in for a very passionate kiss. Néron suddenly felt lightheaded. Electricity seemed to course through him from head to toe. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the wood nymphs had disappeared.

Master Sylvanus uttered a weary sigh. "They're usually harmless—if they like you," he said, his wand trembling in his hand, "but they like to tease."

"Well, I'm glad they like you, sir. That's all I've got to say."

Suddenly, there was a swooshing sound overhead. Both teacher and student gazed upward.

"Down, you great beast!" a girl's voice shouted. "Down this instant!"

Whatever it was rocketed overhead with a whoosh louder than any Néron had heard in his life. "The clearing!" Master Sylvanus said, and the two hurried back to the opening in the forest where they had first seen the poplar tree.

Trotting near the tree was a creature the likes of which Néron had never seen in his life. At first glance, he would have thought it was a warhorse, but compared to any other warhorse it was gigantic—a huge Palomino, taller than a man and massively built. It took another heartbeat for Néron to notice the creature's glistening white wings folded against its sides.

A girl was sliding off its back, quaking from head to foot. She tried to shove her wand in the horse's face, but it kept walking away.

"Pay attention, you hideous nag!" she raged. "I don't see why Master Enricx thinks you're worth the trouble! If I had my way—"

Néron realized at once that he knew the girl. His heart gave a flutter.

"Elionor?" he said. The girl continued to berate the horse, but apart from flapping its huge wings once or twice, it didn't seem to notice. The girl was about Néron's age, not precisely slim, but quite good looking—or at least Néron had always thought so. She hitched up the skirts of her dark-green dress to follow the horse toward the patch of grass it had discovered. Néron slowly approached with Master Sylvanus close behind.

"Elionor? What's going on?"

She turned toward Néron and Master Sylvanus, aware for the first time of their presence, in the middle of a primal grunt that reminded Néron somewhat of the sound a kettle makes when it was just beginning to boil.

"Néron! Master Sylvanus! What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing, my girl," Master Sylvanus said.

"Master Sylvanus and I were out collecting wand-wood," Néron added. "But you…?"

"I _was_ helping Master Enricx. But Aurora, it seems, had other plans!"

"So he's finally named her?" Master Sylvanus said admiringly. At the two students' quizzical expressions, he explained, "Enricx told me he had spotted a wild Abraxan in the forest. I knew he wanted to see if he could tame her, but—"

"But he has obviously failed!" Elionor shouted.

The horse turned its attentions to Néron. It gave him a playful nudge and tried to lick his hands. When he pulled them away, it went after the hairs on the top of his head.

"Hey!" he shouted as he decided it was preferable to let it lick his hand after all.

"Don't be afraid, Elionor!" The girl was still fuming, imitating Master Enricx's boisterous voice, "Help me put this bridle on her, Elionor; hold her still while I fetch another bucket, Elionor…. And the next thing I knew, the beast had taken flight! My hand was caught in the reins! All I could do was hold on and try to get the great beast back on the ground. Where in Atlantes's name are we, anyway?"

"About two or three miles south of town, I should say" Master Sylvanus offered. "Well past the anti-_Moldu_ boundaries, but still a bit north of the road that runs from Marselha to Canua."

"There you are!" A deep, rumbling voice echoed through the clearing. All eyes turned to see Master Enricx, a tall, burly wizard, bounding toward them with his red hair and beard blowing in the breeze.

"Master Enricx!" Elionor cried.

"You brought her down!" he beamed. "Well done, well done!" His massive hand was wrapped around the handle of a stout wooden bucket. The hem of his robes was muddy and grass-stained, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal powerful, hairy forearms.

At last he drew near the other three. He wiped his brow with his forearm and smiled down at them. "Abraxans take a firm hand, that's for sure," he said.

"So I see," Master Sylvanus mused. "This is the one you've been telling me about?"

Master Enricx grinned. "I've named her Aurora. I finally coaxed her to let me near her." He looked down at Néron. "Took me nearly a month!"

"And you didn't even have Néron here for bait!" Master Sylvanus laughed, for the horse evidently thought his student was as delicious as a bale of alfalfa hay. Néron frowned and tried to maintain some semblance of dignity as the horse nipped, nudged, and licked him wherever it could reach.

"Nah," Master Enricx grinned. "I figured out the secret." He hefted his wooden bucket. There was an unusual, yeasty aroma coming from the golden liquid inside. Recognition dawned on Master Sylvanus's face.

"Barley beer?"

"She came to it like a moth to a candle," Master Enricx said. "But a stronger recipe would probably work even better, though. I'll talk to Mistress Constansa about borrowing her still some time. It's good for more than potions, you know."

"So, what are you going to do with her?" Néron asked warily.

"Well," Master Enricx shrugged, "I was thinking I'd try to breed her if I can find a sire."

Elionor uttered a reproachful "Hmmph!"

"It will soon be lunchtime," Master Sylvanus announced. "We should be getting back. Why don't you two run along," he nodded to Néron and Elionor. "There's something I need to discuss with Master Enricx."

"Yes, Master Sylvanus," the two students answered. Master Enricx yanked on Aurora's reins and the two teachers started off, taking up the rear.

Néron had no trouble finding the path that lead back through the forest toward Bels-bastons. He and Elionor strode briskly—a combination of hunger, nerves, and relief at coming out of the woods alive propelled them both.

"So help me," Elionor finally said, "if Master Enricx intends to give a lesson on Abraxans next year, I'm going to stay in my room."

Néron didn't answer at once, but he knew he couldn't put this conversation off forever. "About next year," he said. "Elionor, there's something I need to tell you..."

* * *

><p>• In the <em>Odyssey<em>, Circe turned Odysseus's sailors into swine and held them hostage so Odysseus would remain with her on her island.

• Atlantes was an evil sorcerer of French folklore, supposedly a contemporary of Charlemagne (c. AD 800).

• Canua is the ancient name of Cannes.

• Whiskey (single-malt or otherwise) did not come into existence until the twelfth–thirteenth centuries, but barley beer might be a suitable alternative known from ancient times. Although wine was the preferred drink in southern France, barley was grown as a crop and there's no reason Enricx couldn't have brewed his own. Undoubtedly, he and every other wizard learned the basics of distillation in his Potions classes.


	4. A Labor of Love

Elionor said very little after Néron told her he might be leaving the Academy for good in just a few short weeks. It wasn't like they were betrothed, but there was something pleasantly comfortable about the way their friendship had grown over the past few years.

Although he didn't admit it, he had secretly thought about asking for her hand some day. In another year he would be of age. He might even decide to stay in Bels-bastons and apprentice himself to Master Ponç or one of the other wand-makers. Now, however, his father was the Seigneur of some crumbly old manor in England, holding court, collecting rents, and elbowing his way ever higher into the ranks of Guillaume the Red's most trusted lieutenants.

Néron spent the month of May wondering about the future. Talking to Elionor was nearly too awkward to bear, and Austor was too preoccupied with chasing girls to provide much companionship.

As if that weren't bad enough, he had to go to his classes wandless as he waited for Master Sylvanus to finish his work on the crude length of olive wood they had brought back from the forest. He should have been grateful Mistress Rixenda considered this indignity ample punishment for ducking out of class. After all, Austor was stuck cleaning the Potions classroom—without using magic—every weekend to atone for his own truancy.

Still, it galled him to consistently have to either borrow someone else's wand or receive zero marks in Spell-casting, Dueling, and every other class that required wand-work.

The only slight relief from the monotony came in early June when, for what had to have been the dozenth time that year, Austor managed to surreptitiously animate the suits of armor in the entrance hall so they would jump out at unsuspecting students on their way to class. Adeliz, a young, blonde Norman girl, squealed with fright as the surcoated figures glided toward her making no sound but the rustle of chainmail.

Although most of the younger students received quite a start, the older ones often fought back. Petru and Paulu, twins from Corsica, attempted to Stun them, sending helmets and shields clanging to the floor. Frotlina, a Frankish girl from Paris, used a Fire Charm and nearly burned down a hundred-year-old tapestry.

The final straw, however, was when Jehan, from Canua, decided to use a Reductor Curse on of them and sent fragments of metal flying in every direction, inflicting minor injuries on half a dozen students.

At that point Mistress Rixenda decreed that henceforth suits of armor would no longer be displayed in the entrance hall. (She was later heard to admit that she had always thought they were ugly, anyway.)

After that, Austor was required to clean Master Enricx's stables and the Owlery as well as the Potions classroom until the end of the term.

The very next Saturday, Néron received a note at breakfast. It was delivered by one of the school owls, and when he unwrapped the parchment he found it contained but a single line: "It's ready. S." A grin broke out across his face. Looking to the head of the table, where the faculty sat, he only then realized that Master Sylvanus was absent. Néron finished his bread and cheese and hurriedly excused himself from the table, practically flying toward the Spells teacher's apartments.

This time, the door was closed. Néron rapped on the door. He could barely contain his enthusiasm, and he was sure that when Master Sylvanus at long last opened the door he greeted him with the giddy grin of a little boy on Saint Nicholas Eve.

"Ah, Néron, come in," Master Sylvanus smiled. "I have something for you."

He led Néron through the outer parlor into a small workroom at the back of his quarters. From the look of it, the room had until recently served as a storage room for all the books, quills, parchments, and magical instruments the Spells master couldn't fit anywhere else, but a section of the work bench had been cleared off to make room for a handful of wood-working tools.

"Let's give this a try, shall we?"

The Spells teacher picked up a long, thin bundle wrapped in black velvet. He handed it to Néron, who wasted no time undoing the wrappings and pulling out his new wand.

The reddish streaks in the otherwise creamy wood made the entire wand look like it was made of smoke. It was a bit shorter than his poplar wand, but as he swished it back and forth the weight and balance seemed familiar in his hand.

"Thirteen inches," Master Sylvanus said. "A bit shorter than your first wand, but that's because the wood itself is a bit heftier. I hope I got it right."

"It's perfect, sir. Absolutely perfect."

He felt the texture of the grip—a nice, comfortable girth. Not too thin, not too thick. It was only then that he noticed the engraving. On one side of the grip was an intricately carved figure of a wood nymph peering out from behind a tree. On the other, a galloping winged horse with the sun rising over its back. With both images, Néron could tell Master Sylvanus had used the natural streaking patterns of the wood to full effect to create, if possible, a three-dimensional effect without compromising the symmetry of the grip. He was suddenly convinced that his poplar wand, as beautiful as it was, had been made when Master Sylvanus was having a bad day.

"I don't know what to say," he whispered. "It's the best wand I've ever seen."

"Well, try it out, my boy. Let's see what it can do."

Néron scanned the room. His eyes lit upon a small bottle of amber liquid—wand polish, he imagined. With a flick of his wand and a quick incantation, the bottle expanded, glowing golden, and was transfigured into a crystal goblet. The surge of power coursing out of Néron, through the wand, and into the vessel was surprising. It was exhilarating.

Master Sylvanus smiled even more brightly. "You haven't asked me about the core."

Néron took another look at the grip of the wand. "I think I can guess. It's Abraxan feather, isn't it?"

"Well done, Néron. That is precisely right. Strong, agile—you'll command the power of the four winds with that wand, I guarantee it."

"You never told me how much you would charge, sir, if—"

"Please, Néron, don't insult me by offering me gold. This was a labor of love—both for you and for the craft itself. I didn't realize until I started working that this was something I needed to do, as much for myself as for you. I suppose I still had one more wand to make to get it out of my system so I could devote myself completely to my new life as a teacher. Oh, I may take on an apprentice some day and teach him my tricks if the mood strikes me, but I prefer to leave the work for others." He gestured toward the tip of Néron's wand. "Yes, I'm confident this one will be my last. One last wand, made with no conditions or price tags attached, simply for the joy of making it. I thank you, Néron, for providing me this opportunity."

"I'll never forget this, sir. I'll treasure it forever."

Later that day, Néron was still looking for any possible excuse to perform magic with his new wand. The entire next week, he could be seen between classes trying out whatever simple spells he could think of. He changed the colors of practically every flower in the gardens. He levitated pebbles, apples, small animals—and anything else he could spy. He amplified or muffled the noises around him almost at random.

He showed his wand to anyone who asked, but he wouldn't let anyone hold it.

At last, however, he came down to earth as the school term came to a close. The morning after the Parting Feast, he packed up his things, and went to breakfast dreading the moment his father would arrive.

He didn't have long to wait. As Néron and Austor strolled the front lawn, bidding goodbye to their classmates as their parents came to collect them, he suddenly became aware of the buzz of curiosity and the glances of inquisitive eyes darting toward the front gate.

Néron's father cut an imposing figure in his dark wizard's robes beneath a vermillion cloak that swelled behind him, nearly lifted airborne on the slightest breeze. He was tall and fair-skinned like his son, and with long hair and beard only somewhat lighter in color. He strode with the regal bearing that befit a member of the lesser nobility, with his hand on the hilt of his jewel-scabbarded sword.

Though he nodded and even occasionally smiled at the students as he passed, they all stepped out of his way the way they might avoid a potentially venomous snake. Several steps behind him, a house elf padded along, naked but for a pristine oversized silk handkerchief draped over its tiny body in intricate folds that imitated the look of a Greek statue.

"Good day, Néron" he addressed his son. "It's good to see you again."

"And you, sir," he answered. "I trust mother is well."

"She is busy decorating the manor, but you of course realize your mother lives for that sort of thing." He became aware of Austor's fidgety presence at Néron's side. "And good day to you. We've met before, haven't we?"

"Y-yes, _mossenher_," Austor gulped. "I'm Austor. I'm friends with Néron."

"And my name is Flavius de Malefoy. It is a pleasure to meet you again."

* * *

><p>• William Rufus ("Guillaume the Red") was the son of William the Conqueror. He ruled England 1087–1100.<p>

• Gifts were originally exchanged on the Eve of Saint Nicholas (December 5), not Christmas. The custom apparently began in France in the eleventh–twelfth centuries.

• _Mossenher_ is the Occitan equivalent of _mon seigneur_, "my lord," a title which at this time was only applied to those of high birth and station.

• Proper surnames, as opposed to bynames (denoting occupation, parentage, or distinguishing feature) functioned somewhat like title deeds: they were borne only by landowners and passed down to their sons as part of their inheritance, along with the family seal and coat of arms. Néron therefore wouldn't be entitled to the surname de Malefoy until the death of his father. Until then, he might be called something like "Néron Fitz Flavii" ("Nero son of Flavius"). Obviously, Néron and Flavius are not authentic Norman names, but I can't imagine a Malfoy ancestor with a name that is not drawn from classical antiquity. :-)


	5. I Give You This Wand

Néron's father turned to the house elf at his feet. "Zazou, run and fetch Néron's things. You remember how to find is room, no?"

The elf bowed and disappeared with a sharp popping sound. The Seigneur de Malefoy faced his son. "Good news!" he said. "I've made all the necessary arrangements with the Headmaster at Hogwarts. You're set to begin in September."

Néron sighed heavily but bit his lip. Austor, who hadn't moved from the spot where Néron's father greeted him, suddenly realized where he was and bowed away as quietly as possible.

"You'll find Hogwarts is every bit as fine a school as the Academy," Flavius said, judging the meaning of his son's frosty demeanor. "They've got an excellent faculty, an extensive library…."

"I'll miss my friends."

"You'll make new friends," Flavius said. When Néron said nothing, he added, "Néron, not every wizard is granted an English lordship. It is a title of great responsibility and influence. I'm in a position to do some good for our kind. You understand that."

Néron simply gazed at his father in silence.

"Some day you will be the Seigneur de Malefoy," Flavius continued. "It is in your best interest to understand how the wizarding world works in England. I see no better way to gain that understanding than to finish your education at Hogwarts."

"I don't even speak English!"

"Neither do I!" Flavius blurted, a slight blush rising on his cheeks. Composing himself, he said, "The language of instruction at Hogwarts is Latin, just like here at the Academy. You'll have no problems getting along, especially as there are quite a few Norman children attending there now."

Néron knew it wouldn't do any good to argue. He had learned long ago that his father always got his way in the end.

"At least let me say goodbye to my friends."

"Of course, Néron. I would never be so cruel as to deny you that. The carriage is just outside the palace gate. Zazou and I will wait for you there."

Flavius de Malefoy turned away, and his rich vermillion cloak flapped behind him like the wings of some mysterious creature of wind and fire.

Néron's thoughts turned to Elionor. He dashed inside the palace to look for her. She wasn't in the entrance hall, nor in the Great Hall, where some students were visiting with each other and waiting for their parents to arrive.

"February," he muttered to himself. He would go to Hogwarts in September, but in February he turned seventeen and came of age.

There was no sign of Elionor in the classroom wing. He accosted a couple of girls leaving the girls' dormitories to ask if she were there. Neither of them had seen her.

A plan was beginning to form in his mind. A sense of resolve was growing, making his heart race.

He found her outside in the gardens on the far side of the palace. She smiled when she saw him, then frowned as she realized he had come to say goodbye.

"Elionor," he said. She started to say something but he held out his hand and continued. "My father is here to fetch me home. He insists I go to that wretched English school next year."

It was nothing Elionor had not been warned to expect, but still she seemed heartbroken at the news.

"I'll come back," Néron said. "Less than a year, and I'm no longer under his authority."

"Néron, what are you saying?"

"I'm asking—"

"Yes?"

"I'm asking…if you…if we…" Words failed him. He reached for his mokeskin pouch. He pulled out his wand. It was, he realized, the only thing he owned that had not been paid for with his father's money. His books, his cauldron—even the clothes on his back. Only his wand was truly his. It belonged to him, and him alone. If he was going to do what he planned, his wand was the only thing he wanted to use.

Néron took a deep breath. "Elionor," he said, and lowered himself to one knee. "I give you this wand in the name of marriage."

Elionor started. "Néron, I…"

Néron could see the hesitancy in Elionor's eyes. "U-unless you…don't…."

"No, Néron!" she protested. "I do…but… Oh, Néron, we're too young!"

"But isn't that the point of a betrothal? To declare our intention to be married when we both come of age?"

"Well, I suppose… But please don't ask me to take your wand! Give me something else. Anything else!"

"I have nothing else to give," he said flatly.

"But your father! What will he say when you tell him you've given me your wand?"

"There are bound to be wand-makers in England," he shrugged.

She shook her head. "It's too much, Néron. I'm not sure you've thought this through. You can't just give away your wand!"

"Then give it back to me," he said. "The first Saint Nicholas Eve after we're married, or my next birthday, I don't care. But for now, I'm giving this wand to you—and I guarantee it will never perform more powerful magic than it can right now…if you'll let it."

Elionor blushed. She stretched out her hand and gently cradled the wand, feeling its heft as Néron let go of it. He rose to his feet.

"They say the weather in England is dreadful," Elionor scoffed.

"Then I'll start working on father to take a lordship in Sicily," Néron joked. He bent down to kiss his betrothed. His whole body became warm and tingly. In the distance, he could just hear the songs of wood nymphs echoing in the trees.

Néron let out a satisfied sigh. He realized with a broadening grin that he would rather kiss Elionor than any wood nymph in the forest.

* * *

><p>• England's Norman conquerors continued to speak French, which became the language of court and law for centuries. French influences upon English vocabulary and pronunciation drove the development from Old English to Middle English.<p>

• In the Middle Ages, betrothals involved the ritual exchange of virtually any object—a ring, a flute, some coins, or even a ball of string. Betrothals were often established as the "waiting period" until one or both partners came of age.

• In addition to England, Normans ruled in Sicily, southern Italy, and even Jerusalem during the eleventh–twelfth centuries.

• I've now written a brief vignette about the early days of Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbâtons. Shall I proceed to other wizarding institutions? Azkaban? The Triwizard Tournament? Ollivander's?


End file.
